Share No Secrets

by Carlene Thompson

  In fifteen minutes, Miles climbed into his car while Margaret hovered near the half-open front door, her silk robe tied loosely around her. Anger, confusion, and a little fright churned behind her dark eyes. She felt stunned. And hurt. But never one to let another person get the upper hand, she slammed the door, locked it, and flipped the dead bolt. The gesture was futile—after all, Miles wasn’t coming back—but she knew he’d heard the noise of the slamming door, which somehow made her feel better.

  The big grandfather clock in her living room chimed ten times. How she’d loved that cherrywood clock when she was a teenager, and how surprised she’d been when the elderly man who’d been her mentor and her lover had given it to her when she got her master’s degree in public relations. “I’m an old man. I no longer need it,” he’d said. “But when you look at it, you’ll remember me. And don’t say you’re not leaving me, because I know you are. You’ve outgrown me, and I won’t be greedy and pitiful by trying to hold on to you. But I can’t forget how when you came to me at sixteen, you seemed like a magical gift. And a magical female needs a magnificent, chiming clock to let her know when it’s the witching hour—the hour of midnight on a full moon when a witch’s powers are at their strongest.”

  “I wish you were still here,” Margaret said wistfully to the lover who’d died a year after their parting. “You would know how to handle Miles. You would know whether or not he really loves me, or if I’m just a poor substitute for his lost Julianna. The bitch! If I told what I knew about her death, I could change quite a few things that need changing, and not just because of Miles.”

  By eleven-thirty, Margaret had put the dishes in the dishwasher, gone over her notes for tomorrow, watched the news, and written a rare letter to her mother, but none of these activities had settled her nerves. Margaret finally slipped into an old sleep shirt and went into the bathroom to begin her nighttime beauty ritual, all the while still smoldering over the woman who’d caused her so much trouble in life, and who still managed to cause her trouble in death.

  Julianna Brent. Margaret could easily strip away any illusions people had about that piece of work. Yes, Julianna was beautiful. She was also a self-seeking, heedless, idiotic woman of thirty-six who had the sense of a twelve-year-old. Even less sense, Margaret fumed as she slathered cleansing cream over her face. Yes, she could shake up quite a few things if she revealed the name of Julianna’s killer and the reason for her death. And at the moment, she almost felt like doing it, to hell with the consequences.

  Margaret rubbed a washcloth over her face, wiping hard at the cleansing cream, then winced as the stuff ran into the corner of her eye. It was guaranteed not to sting. The guarantee was false. She felt as if she’d poured vinegar directly on her right eyeball. “Dammit,” she muttered, bending down and leaning sideways to let water from the spigot run into her eye. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”

  Margaret splashed water, letting it run into her hair, into her nose, splashing it onto the mirror above the sink. Finally, it began to trickle down the side of the new mahogany vanity she’d just had installed. Salt from the water softener would cause the water to leave spots and mar the shining varnish of the vanity. She fumbled for a hand towel and stooped to wipe dry the wood. Then, even with one eye clenched against pain and the other blurry from the water dousing, she saw it.

  A foot.

  A foot in a terry-cloth house slipper.

  Margaret raised up. “What on earth?” she got out before something slammed against the back of her skull.

  She dropped to the floor as if her bones had dissolved. Her forehead raked the sharp edge of the vanity and her knees folded, trapping her lower legs beneath her thighs.

  In a flash, someone was at her, delivering a crushing blow to her upper face, smashing the orbital bones around her eyes. Her vision vanished, as if a shade had been dropped, but she remained conscious, able to hear more facial bones snapping, nasal cartilage crunching, teeth shattering.

  At first, Margaret felt nothing. She lay crumpled—blind, silent, stunned to near-insensibility, and stupefied. Then pain lashed at her, searing through every limb, taking away her breath. Her left arm flailed aimlessly, unconsciously, and was promptly pinned against the floor. Another explosion of pain ripped through her as something cold and heavy smashed her elbow.

  Margaret finally drew enough breath to scream and choked on fragments of broken teeth. Her teeth had been perfect, she thought in the tiny corner of her mind that remained sensible. They’d looked like porcelain veneers. Now they mixed with blood and clogged her throat. She emitted a gurgling sound. “Not so good with the words now, are you, Margaret?” a voice asked. “Not so sure of yourself anymore.” Something smashed down on her chest and she heard a rib snap before she experienced the pain of a jagged edge puncturing a lung. “But you know what the Bible says: ‘Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before the fall.’ So you see, you had it coming. No, I guess you don’t see. You won’t see anything again. So sad. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

  Margaret thought in agony, Why can’t I pass out? The blows to her body had stopped. The taunting voice had stopped. But she could still hear. And worst of all, she could still feel. Some deep instinct kept nagging her to get help, to drag herself from the bathroom to the bedroom phone. But another instinct, stronger and more powerful, wanted to avoid pain.

  She lay perfectly still, sensing someone watching her, waiting for a jerk, even a twitch, before raining blows on her again. She barely let herself breathe. She felt consciousness shrink into a tiny spark within her body. Or what was left of her body.

  If I live, she thought with a strange cool certainty, no one can fix me. No one can even make me halfway presentable. I will be pathetic. Repulsive. A freak.

  And that, for Margaret Taylor, who had worked so hard to make herself perfect, would be worse than death.

  It’s over, she thought bleakly. In ten minutes, her intelligence, beauty, ambition, and potential had been shattered like the fragile bones of her face. How invincible she’d felt just this afternoon. How annihilated she felt now.

  Blood streamed down the ruin of Margaret’s face and soaked into the cream-colored bathroom carpet. After what seemed hours she felt the sharp edge of pain dull and the rapid pace of her heart begin to slow. It’s ending, she thought in relief, knowing someone still hovered and watched. It’s finally ending.

  As Margaret drew her last breath, she heard the grandfather clock in the living room chime twelve times, cheerfully announcing the arrival of the witching hour.

  ELEVEN

  1

  Once a week Margaret Taylor’s cleaning lady, Ruby, arrived at seven A.M. sharp so the smells of the disinfectants she used would have dissipated by the time Margaret arrived home eleven hours later. Margaret claimed to be allergic to cleaning solutions. Even their scents made her eyes swell and caused her to sneeze, she said.

  Ruby thought “Miss Perfect” simply found something repellent about even seeing scrubbing and scouring, much less doing it herself. Ruby wondered if Margaret’s mother had cleaned houses for a living and Margaret had been ashamed of her. Or better yet, if at one time the prissy Margaret was forced to clean houses herself for a living! That made even more sense to Ruby, who considered herself quite astute at analyzing people. She often wondered if she shouldn’t throw over her cleaning career and become a psychologist so she could earn hundreds of thousands of dollars a year just sitting in some fancy office listening to people babble about their boring selves all day.

  But thoughts of a career change deserted Ruby on the morning she walked slowly through the Taylor home, noting the telltale signs of the supposedly secret lover’s visit, and found the body of Margaret on the bathroom floor. At least she thought it was Margaret. As Ruby screamed her way out of the house and into the quiet, early-morning neighborhood, all she’d really registered was a crushed, bloody, hideous thing resembling a human female lying on the impractical cream-colored carpet in
front of the bathroom vanity.

  Ruby had shrieked halfway down the residential lane when dignified Dr. Hawkins, who was always up with the birds, ran out in his plaid robe and literally wrestled the stocky, flailing Ruby to the street. She continued to screech and howl and jabber uncontrollably until, wincing, gentle Dr. Hawkins delivered a sharp little slap to her plump cheek. Ruby’s eyes flew wide and she slapped him back. Hard. But at least she shut up.

  “My God, woman, what’s wrong?” Dr. Hawkins asked, trying to blink back stinging tears brought on by the blow from Ruby’s work-hardened hand.

  But it was too late. She’d seen the tears and was heartsick at what she’d done to the poor man, and him being from England and a college professor of literature, no less. “Oh, Dr. Hawkins, I am so sorry.” Ruby, who was forty-five, considered Dr. Hawkins remarkably handsome for a man in his late fifties. He was also a widower and well off. “It’s just … you wouldn’t believe … It’s so horrible …” An image of the shattered body rose up in her mind again and she let out another chilling wail.

  “Madam … I’m sorry, I don’t know your name—”

  “Fincher,” Ruby sobbed. “Miss Ruby Fincher.”

  “Yes, well, Miss Fincher, please try to calm down and tell me what’s wrong. It can’t be all that bad.”

  “She’s dead!” Ruby bellowed. “At least I think it’s her. The Taylor woman.”

  Dr. Hawkins drew back. “Dead? Oh no. That can’t be. She’s a very young woman. Perhaps she’s just sick.”

  “Sick! I don’t think so! She’s layin’ on the bathroom floor beaten to a pulp, head all smashed in, teeth knocked out, blood everywhere.” Ruby didn’t seem to notice Dr. Hawkins’s look of nausea as another thought struck her. “Lordy, I’ll never get that carpet clean!”

  “My heavens,” Dr. Hawkins said weakly. “We must do something—”

  “I am not going back to that house!”

  “No, no, certainly not. We’ll call someone. Yes, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll go into my house and call 911.” He gently tried to loosen Ruby’s boa constrictor grip on his neck. “Are you able to walk, Miss Fincher?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Ruby hoisted herself up to her tennis-shoe-encased feet, stepped back from Dr. Hawkins, tottered slightly, then took his arm as if to steady herself. “Yes, I can make it as far as your house as long as I lean on you.”

  “That’s just fine. Lean on me as much as you need to, Miss Fincher.” They started slowly to his large, slate-blue Cape Cod. “My goodness, this is just unbelievable. I still haven’t quite taken it in. And you, you poor dear. To have seen such a sight!” Dr. Hawkins shivered slightly. “I’ll place the call and then fix you some tea. Good hot tea. That will set you right up.”

  Ruby shot him her most fetching smile, thinking that under the circumstances she’d rather have a double shot of scotch even if it was seven in the morning, but tea with Dr. Hawkins was better than nothing. Yes sir, maybe Miss Too-Good-to-Wipe-My-Shoes-on-You Margaret Taylor had done Ruby a favor. Because of her, Ruby had finally gotten to say more than “hello” to Dr. Hawkins.

  Then Ruby pictured the crushed mass that was now Margaret and touched the tiny gold cross she always wore. She wouldn’t allow herself to think bad thoughts about that woman, no matter how high-and-mighty she’d been. Ruby would go to church tonight, light a candle, and say a prayer for her. Yes, that would clear her conscience. She’d say a Catholic Hail Mary, and add a nice Protestant off-the-cuff prayer asking that Margaret find peace in the Hereafter. That should do the trick.

  And she’d hope no one would expect her to clean up that carpet.

  2

  “Adrienne? Did I wake you?”

  Rarely did her niece call her simply “Adrienne.” “No, Rachel. I’ve been up about twenty minutes.” Adrienne glanced at the kitchen wall clock and saw that it was shortly after eight. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes. Big time.” Rachel drew a deep breath and said with labored calm, “Margaret has been killed.”

  “Killed?” Adrienne repeated blankly. “In a car wreck?”

  “No.” Rachel’s voice wavered. “She was murdered. In her house. The cleaning lady found her this morning.”

  The word murdered stunned Adrienne into silence. All she could picture was the annoying, elegantly groomed, fast-talking, dominating whirlwind that was Margaret Taylor lying quietly dead in her house.

  “Aunt Adrienne?”

  “Yes, honey, I’m here.”

  “The press has already gotten wind of it. There are a few reporters here and no doubt more on the way. Dad is shouting like a crazy man at Mom and me like it’s our fault. I’m forbidden to go in to work today and Mom is on her way to falling apart.” Rachel’s tone turned hesitantly pleading. “Could you come over? I think Mom really needs you.”

  “I’ll be there as fast as I can.” An odd calm born of shock filled Adrienne. She felt strong and capable and businesslike. “Don’t go out and talk to those reporters, even if some of them are your friends. That will only make your father mad at you. And try to keep him away from your mother. Tell him if he thinks shouting will help the situation, then go down and do it in the basement.”

  Adrienne sensed a smile in Rachel’s tone. “Thanks, Aunt Adrienne. You’re a lifesaver.”

  Adrienne set down her morning mug of coffee and walked into Skye’s room. She usually didn’t sleep this late, but they’d both been restless last night and stayed up until past midnight eating popcorn and watching the eerie movie The Others. Brandon now lay on his giant cushion beside Skye’s bed, snoring, his upper Hp flapping every time he exhaled. Adrienne had to lean over him to gently shake the girl awake.

  Skye muttered, scowled, then looked at her mother with huge, alert eyes. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

  “Something has happened. Margaret Taylor is dead. Rachel called and asked that we come over to their house for moral support. The press is already there.”

  “Dead! Wow.” Skye threw back the covers and stepped over Brandon, now wallowing in a valiant attempt to get sleep-stiffened muscles moving. “What did Margaret die of?”

  “Well, it seems she was … murdered.”

  “Murdered!” Skye froze. “How?”

  Adrienne stared at her, realizing she hadn’t asked Rachel. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know!” Skye looked at her in disbelief. “Gosh, Mom, how can you not know? Didn’t you even ask?”

  “No. I was so surprised and Rachel sounded rushed and worried.” Skye almost fell over Brandon, who’d managed to rise on his front paws although his rear was still firmly planted on the cushion. “We’ll find out how Margaret died when we get to Vicky’s,” Adrienne said briskly to stem further questions. “Dress quickly. Rachel says her parents are really upset”

  “No doubt! Mom, how can you act so calm? It’s another murder, for Pete’s sake. And even scarier, it’s another murder of someone we knew!”

  Adrienne went cold inside. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t asked Rachel for the details of Margaret’s murder. Skye was right—another person they knew had been murdered, and the implications were so frightening she didn’t want to think about them.

  She and Skye had a brief skirmish over taking Brandon along. When they pulled into the Hamilton driveway and a small but aggressive gaggle of reporters descended on them, Adrienne was glad Skye had won. A one-hundred-pound dog growling ferociously backed away most of them, none of whom knew that Brandon had never bitten anyone in his life. The growling was a trick Skye had taught him and as soon as they reached the house unscathed, he looked at his mistress with his tongue lolling happily, expecting the praise he always got for turning in an Oscar-worthy performance.

  Mrs. Pitt greeted them, her face even homelier than usual. “Isn’t this just the worst thing? Those awful people out there banging on the door, even trying to look in the windows! Ms. Taylor always handled them with no fuss and I thought getting rid of them must be easy. I can see that it isn’t, but
I’ll never get to tell her I know what a good job she did.”

  “I don’t think Margaret needed compliments to bolster her confidence.” Adrienne realized how harsh she’d sounded and ended lamely, “She loved her job.”

  “That she did.” Mrs. Pitt shook her head dolefully. “No one wanted a regular breakfast this morning so I just made cinnamon rolls. Can I interest either of you?”

  “I’m kind of hungry,” Skye said.

  Mrs. Pitt finally smiled. “Good. Rachel is in the kitchen drinking coffee. Maybe you can talk her into eating something, too.”

  “I’ll skip food and go to my sister. Is she in her bedroom?” Adrienne asked, already knowing the answer. Ever since Vicky was a teenager, she’d retreated to her bedroom when she was upset.

  “Yes. She only came down twice this morning and each time she and Mr. Hamilton … well … this is hard on everyone.”

  Which meant Vicky had collided with Philip’s wrath and fled. Adrienne wondered angrily how the hell Philip thought causing an uproar in his own home could do anything except make matters worse.

  “You go on up to your sister, Ms. Reynolds,” Mrs. Pitt said. “I’ll bring some coffee and rolls in a little while.”

  Mrs. Pitt had been with the Hamiltons for ten years and Adrienne sometimes felt the efficient, solicitous widow was all that held the family together. She patted the woman’s arm. “Thanks. And don’t let Brandon eat too many cinnamon rolls.”

  Upstairs she tapped lightly on the bedroom door and entered without waiting for a response. Vicky lay propped up in bed, her complexion pasty, her lips colorless, and her blond bangs pushed back, revealing a hairline damp with perspiration. She lifted a cigarette to her mouth with trembling fingers, inhaled deeply, then said, “Thank God you’re here. I feel like I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.”

  Adrienne had expected her sister to be agitated over the situation. She hadn’t expected her to be devastated. After all, Vicky didn’t even like Margaret. But she couldn’t have looked more ravaged if the murder victim had been Rachel.